


When is a Scratch Not a Scratch

by 385oze385



Series: A faerie walks [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Derek Feels, Hurt Stiles, The Alpha Pack, cliched heartfelt musical backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/385oze385/pseuds/385oze385
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted to get some snacks for pack night. Now he's been mauled by an alpha, no one knows if Stiles will wake up, or what he'll be if he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Squatting down on the slightly grimy vinyl floors of the 24-hour mini-mart, facing the shelves of soft-drinks, Stiles catches movement out of the corner of his eye. A man, roughly dressed and heavy set has stood next to him, running a blackened finger along the brightly coloured labels. Stiles dismisses him; he’s been trying to work on his paranoia, and Scott’s been on his case about not making assumptions about threats. 

“Nice evening for a trip, don’t you think?” 

The voice matches his appearance, scratchy and low, menacing in its tone. He moves closer, his stained brownish coat brushing against Stile’s bent thigh. He almost gags, the threat smells of putrefying meat, earth and day-old cigarette smoke. 

“I’ve always found these to be too sweet for my palate. Too processed, I can always taste the chemicals. Though I do have somewhat enhanced senses.”

He reaches down grips Stile’s wrist from where he was about to take a bottle off the shelf. His palm; dry and rough against Stile’s increasingly sweaty skin. His grip is tight, almost bruising and he can feel his joints grind together under the man’s fingers. 

“And they’re always much too cold for me” the stranger yanks Stile’s arm upwards spinning him around until he’s facing him, towering over the teenager. “I prefer my food, freshly caught” his breath hot and putrid against Stile’s face, “warmer maybe even... blood temperature?” His voice rises, a slight smirk on his lips, as his eyes flick down over Stiles' throat in a way that makes his skin crawl.

His eyes flare red. Panic flooding Stiles’ system, his heart rate ratchets upwards, he can almost feel the adrenaline coursing through him.

“We’re going to take a trip, since the weather is so nice, and you’re not going to make any commotion at all. Or the sheriff might be called out for a scene a lot… wetter than it might have to be” He nods toward the store clerk, a bored looking 16 year-old. “Understand?” He pauses. 

“I said, do you understand me?” His voice more threatening, a little alpha command slipping through.

Stiles gives a shaky nod. Images of red soaked floors, arterial spray painting the tiled ceiling flashing through his head. 

“Good. Walk normally out of the store, I’ll be just behind you” At that, Stiles feels a sharp claw scratch along, underneath his jaw, and feels a bead of blood drip down his throat.  
They walk together out through the automatic doors, Stiles desperately trying to ignore the odd looks that the clerk is giving him. He can’t let someone else get hurt because of him, and he needs to get them away from people. 

Once outside the alpha directs him into the preserve, the broken tarmac suddenly leading into dense woodland. Sticks cracking underfoot. 

Stiles reaches into the well-worn front pocket of his red hoodie. Nestled in the soft fabric, in small pocket sewn into the lining, his questing fingers grab a small canister. Silently thanking Lydia, he palms the modified pepper spray, turns to face the werewolf and tries to summon up some courage. He knows that he’s only got one shot at this, so he needs to make this convincing.

“So, what does a big scary old alpha want with a scrawny kid like me huh? And I know we've got that whole ‘ little red riding hood vibe going on’ but I don’t really think I've got enough meat to satisfy a wolf like yourself. No. I mean I've got plenty of meat down there, yes me, very well endowed. You should hear all the girls talk about it. Monster I'm telling you seriously. Studly Stiles, that’s what they call me. But back on topic, I don’t think that you’d want to eat me, I mean I'm quite skinny and everything”

“Shut up” the alpha growls from behind him, “You’re going to call your alpha and tell him to come out here, or I’ll gut you right where you are.”

“Sure, yes, whatever you say” Stiles stuttered out, not quite able to keep the wavering note of panic out of his voice. He could feel his chest starting to tighten as panic started to really take hold over him. Take a deep shaky breath he tried to push down his fear, he needed to stay clear headed for this, or he’d never get out alive. 

He dug his phone out of his pocket, damp fingers scrabbling on the cool plastic case. Fumbling for a moment, he unlocked the phone and called Derek’s number.

“What Stiles, you’re late”

“Well, I’ve had a bit of a problem here you see” A sub-vocal growl sounds from the alpha, Stiles’ throat closes up, he gags, and he starts breathing faster, trying to calm down.

“Stiles, who else is there? Is that another 'wolf? Where are you?” Derek’s voice increasingly more urgent in its demands.

“Another alpha, wants to speak with you, got me at the store we’re outside in the preserve, come now and” 

The alpha rips the phone out of his hand, eyes shining red, rasps through transformed fangs, “and if you want to get here before young and pretty bleeds out, I’d come fast”  
With a crunching sound the alpha crushes his phone, cutting off any of Derek’s voice.

“But, but you said that you wouldn't hurt me if I just called him” Stiles says, voice cracking and breath wheezing through his tightening chest. 

“Did I?” The alpha, still half-shifted smirks at him, head slightly tilted. He starts to stalk towards him, stride open, confident, the very image of a predator. “Well I must have been mistaken.”

Stiles turns to run, but the alpha grabs his shoulders, claws ripping through the flimsy material of his hoodie. He can feel them cut through his skin, painful digging along his upper back. 

Stiles spins left hand coming out, and spraying the alpha in the face. Wolfsbane, mountain ash and mistletoe all mixed into the regular formula. The alpha screams, stumbling backwards and Stiles takes off into the woods. 

He runs, he can feel the cuts on his back bleeding, soaking into the soft material. Training with the pack some, has helped his fitness, but his injuries, panic and earlier adrenaline rushes have drained him. As he jumps over a fallen log, jeans catching on the rough bark, he stumbles and hears the crashing alpha behind him. He darts out into a clearing and across back down into the woods. He’s not trying to hide his sounds. Foot falls breaking sticks and kicking up leaves all around him.

They were meeting at the loft, it’s not too far away from the store and preserve, so the rest of the pack shouldn’t be too long. He just has to keep clear of the alpha until then.  
The alpha is gaining on him. Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He runs around a tree, and trips, foot slamming against a rock and he pitches over. Face full of leaves and mud, he crashes down the bank of a river, until he’s lying face down in a pool of stinking mud. 

Howls sounds off coming closer. The pack is coming, he can hear them sprinting through the preserve. 

A bright pain flashes through both his sides, down along his ribs, the alpha’s claws rip through his skin, pushing him back onto the dirt. The last thing he sees is alpha red eyes bearing down on him as the alpha, fangs extended bends down, intent on ripping out his throat. His vision spirals to black, panic taking over. 

A dark shape leaps up and catches the alpha around the throat, slamming him back to the ground away from Stiles’ limp body. Derek’s half-shifted alpha form, claws extended rips across the alpha’s throat. Arterial spray showers the river bed, just as the rest of the pack arrives, all in their beta shifts.  
“He’s been hurt, we've got to get him to Deaton’s” Comes Scott’s voice, eyes a deep garnet. He turns to face two of the silhouettes. “Isaac and Boyd, can you deal with the body, come meet us at Deaton’s when you’re done”

Derek has already knelt down beside Stiles, and gently picks up the prone boy, the wet hoodie squelching against his skin. He runs off to Deaton’s, leaving Scott and the others to deal with the slowly cooling body.


	2. Chapter 2

He feels soft, his mind is fuzzy, floating gently in dark, thick, syrup-like space. He can’t see anything around him but dark, stretching outwards. He can’t think straight, he’s confused. How did he get to this floaty place? Why is he here? 

He hangs there, suspended, he’s not sure for how long. He thinks it’s nice. He tried counting but got lost when he got past purple. 

Is purple a number? 

He’s not too sure. He’s pretty sure it’s even. It’s his favourite number. It was the colour of the hospital gown his mother was wearing when she said….

He thinks it’s nice here.

He slowly becomes aware of a woman’s voice, far off. High, lyrical, in a language he doesn’t recognise. She repeats the same phrases, syllables flowing together. Public in its gentle intimacy. It reminds him of rolling heathland and stone barrows lying long forgotten in empty landscapes. 

He thinks it’s nice here. 

Scents start filtering through. A comforting mix of salt, something herbal and a rich tang, like metallic earth. It reminds him of his home on the moors. He’s smelt this before, from the porch where it abuts the preserve, he’s always liked the way the light darkens; from the open, almost artificial suburban lawn, to the cool emerald shade of the twisted trees. He’s always wished that he could capture it, that he had that artistic talent.

Maybe he could find someone, inspire someone to record it for him. The idea of that transition held, weightless forever by some artist’s hand. 

The transition is faster now. The darkness is now tinged with a grey light, rapidly rising into uncomfortable brightness. Stiles becomes aware of his body, a dull agony ripping across both sides of his chest. The languid, supporting heavy space surrounding him becomes constricting.

He can’t breathe. The air is heavy on his chest. He’s bound, kept down, contained. 

Gasping, he bucks, the back of his head slamming against a cold metal surface, his fingers, wet and slippery scrabble against the rough cloth binding his sides. He opens his mouth, a scream building at the back of his throat, but he can’t get the air. 

His chest is heaving, pain running down his sides, he feels things breaking down his ribs, thin threads snapping as he writhes on the table. 

“Stiles calm down, you’re safe”

The voice, Derek, he was there, the Alpha. Kidnapped. It comes back to him in flashes. The attack, Derek leaping to save him, the blood. The ripping of claws across his chest, deep scratches cutting across him. 

The world is going black again. Light spiralling into a point in his vision. A high ringing sounds in his ears. He can feel his heart, almost beating through his chest, the panic clenching tight to his insides. 

“Stiles. Everything is going to be fine.” Derek picks Stiles up, cradling the bleeding teenager to his chest. He’s shaking, blood leeching through the tightly wrapped bandages. 

“He must have ripped some of the stitches.” Deaton said, “I will need to redo them, before he can be moved to the hospital.” His unflappable tone, usually so irritating to the alpha seems to calm him.

“Stiles you’re safe.” Derek almost shouts against the still sobbing teen. “The Alpha’s dead, you’re at Deaton’s, you’re going to be ok. Breathe with me.” Derek takes several long, over-exaggerated breaths, counting through each inhale and exhale. 

At first his breaths are still shaky, he can’t stop the tremors that wrack his body, the panic still too fresh in his mind. Slowly though, he matches his breathing to the steady rise and fall of Derek’s well-built chest pressing into his back. 

“You ok?” Asks Derek, his voice gentle, trying not to spook the younger boy, like he’s approaching a frightened wild-animal, cornered and afraid. When he doesn’t reply, Derek holds him a little tighter, squeezing him slightly around his chest. “Deaton needs to fix the stitches that you ripped. You’re bleeding a little still.”

Stiles shakes his head, “No, don’t…” He’s struggling, obviously still confused about what’s going on. He shakes his head again. “Don’t, don’t leave?” His voice, quiet, almost at a whisper by the end. 

Derek’s heart almost breaks at the small, fragile sounds coming from the normally obnoxiously loud teenager. Nodding to Deaton, he turns back to Stiles, “I’ll be right here, the Alpha’s gone and the others are just arriving, once Deaton is finished, they’ll come through to and see you. That ok?”

Stiles nods, and extracts himself from the werewolf’s grip, gingerly moving himself to avoid tugging at his remaining stitches, making sure keep hold of his hand. Stiles notices the black veins running up the alpha’s wrist, thick with his pain. 

“Why did you do that? I’m sure that the good doctor here could have given me something.” He seems both angry and bewildered that someone would do something like that for him. 

“Of course I’d take your pain. You’re pack.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone.

A light flush spreads across Stile’s face, running down his neck. He turns his face to look down at the ground. Surprise and a twinge of embarrassment spreading from him.  
“Oh” he pauses, then almost as if he remembers that they’re not alone, turns to Deaton and in an overly cheerful voice, “right, should we get to it then,” holding his hands out to the veterinarian, and showing a cheeky smirk that didn’t quite cover up his nervousness “stitch me up doc.”

He faints. Of course he does. Out like a light. Gone.

“No I did not” Stiles exclaims from where he was sitting, plastered up against Scott, “I passed out from the pain, thank you very much, I’ve had a long and stressful day, but I most certainly did not faint like some girl”

“Yes?” Erica asks, her tone, dangerously saccharine, “what are you saying then Stiles, do share with the group.”

“Nothing at all, Erica,” Stiles hastily tries to remedy the situation, I’m not saying anything about anything, and I’m still a little woozy from the drugs and pain-drain. I’m compromised,” he half-yells at her smirk and casually aggressive unsheathing of her claws, “you can’t take anything that I’m saying at face value right now, I’m practically drunk!”

The rest of the pack had come into clinic’s surgery just as Deaton was wrapping the last of Stiles’ injuries. Lydia’s closed-lipped nod the only mention that anyone gave about earlier events. Everything seemed to have calmed down, and Derek was glad that everyone was trying not to raise what had happened earlier. For all he was joking around, Stiles still seemed a long way from his usual jovial self. He didn't need reminding of what had happened.

“Um, so to address the pachyderm in the room, it doesn’t seem like I’m turning does it?” Stiles raises when a lull forms in the light-hearted conversation. “I mean, you guys would be able to smell if anything was going to happen right? The scratches must just have been too shallow to turn me.”

“It seems that you were indeed very luck Mr Stilinski,” Deaton said with a half-smile, “I was almost certain that they would have been enough to enact the transformation.”  
All the ‘wolves could hear Stile’s shaky exhale and smell how the teen’s bright scent of anxiety seemed to lessen slightly at the emissary’s words.

“Good, yeah. I thought that I wasn’t, I mean but it’s still nice to be told. So I’m all good right then?”

“You still have very sever lacerations across your left and right sides, it’s going to take around 2 weeks before I can remove the stitches, and a further two beyond that before you have full movement restored. That is assuming that you treat your injuries with the appropriate level of care, and not go gallivanting off as you are wont to do.” At that, the veterinarian gives him a piercing look. 

“I don’t want to see you back here for any injuries in the near future.”

“I’ll do my best, but you know how things are in this city.”

“Right everyone, I think you should all go home. It’s late enough. Remember, training tomorrow, let’s meet at ten, give everyone a chance to get a bit more rest.” 

The rest of the pack swiftly departed, splitting up into different groups, clambering into their cars and peeling out of the parking lot, until only Stiles and Derek were left standing awkwardly outside the closed door. 

“You left your car by the store, I’ll drive you home, and we can go out tomorrow to pick up yours.”

“But didn’t you carry me here? Who brought over the Camaro?”

“Boyd”

“But you never let anyone else drive it.”

“Deaton said that you wouldn’t be able to drive for a while, and you always go on about how you’re the only person who’s allowed to drive the jeep. I swear you love that heap of junk more than anything sometimes.”

“Hey, it’s a great car, it's saved all our asses multiple times!” 

“It’s a moving death-trap and you know it, I’ll never understand why you don’t just ditch it.”

“Well for all its sex-appeal, the Camaro’s pretty beat up inside too, why haven’t you ditched it either yet.”

“Shut up Stiles” Derek half-heartedly grows, a paltry imitation of his first threats.

“It was Laura’s wasn’t it.”

“Yes. The jeep was your mother's.”

“Yeah, dad kept it.”

After that, they walked in silence to the black sports car and Derek opened the door when he saw Stiles struggling as his stitches pulled when he reached up to pull on the handle.  
The drive was quiet, they didn’t speak to each other, the quiet interrupted only by the sound of the engine and the light folk-music station that Stiles put on the radio.

“Mum used to love this stuff” Stiles said after a while, voice quiet in the cabin, “Dad can’t listen to it anymore. It’s always the best in a car. She used to sing along. I wish I could.” If he weren’t a werewolf Derek wouldn’t have been able to hear the last part. 

The alpha reaches over and undoes the glove compartment on the passenger’s side. A few CD cases and cassette tapes fall to the floor. Plastic boxes clattering against each other. Stiles bends down and picks one up.

He reads the labels: Miles Davis, Nat King Cole, and Billie Holiday. 

“My dad’s. He’d listen to them every Sunday morning, he always kept a few in the car. These… when we left, they were still in the back, I wanted to throw them out, get them as CDs or something, I don’t know. Something stupid like that.”

Derek is silent for a few minutes. Eyes focused on the road in front of them.

“Laura she… she made us listen to the stupid tapes. She knew I hated them. But I still can’t get rid of them.”

They’re silent the rest of the journey back. A slight patter of rain and the repetitive swish of the windscreen wipers, a backdrop of sound, melding with the lyrical sounds of the radio. 

When they reach the Stilinski house, it’s dark and unfriendly. The cruiser isn’t parked outside and none of the lights are on.

“Um, so this is me,” Stile’s adds, his voice hesitant and awkward, Derek huffs a slight laugh, “dad’s working a double, so don’t worry about him seeing me tonight, we’ll tell him tomorrow.” His plea is obvious, and just as he’s getting out, he winces, a reminder of the still deep wounds across the boy’s chest.

“I’ll stay.” Derek adds, his arm quickly reaching out to clasp the teen’s thin wrist, and draining the rapidly returning pain. 

Derek waits until Stiles has gotten into bed before he climbs through the half-open window and setting himself down in the desk chair.

“You could have used the door you know.”

“Go to sleep Stiles.”

It’s silent but for their breathing, the room dark with a light breeze coming in through the window.

“Thanks Sourwolf.”

Derek is silent, blending into the darkness in the corner of the room. Staying there until he can hear the younger teen’s heartrate slow. He stays there listening to slow rhythm of the usually fast-paced breathing, drawing contentment from the stillness.

“Night Stiles.” Comes the whisper as he slips out of the window, shutting it tight behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this, I've very much enjoyed writing this. Again, do let me know if you spot anything that ought to be changed, or you have any thoughts at all. Everything is always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan work ever, so if anyone has any comments/ suggestions to make, please do let me know. Hope you enjoy.


End file.
